The door to the bedchamber exploded inward, splintering the frame with a violent crack. Anurag stood there, chest heaving, his handsome face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. His anguished eyes swept the room, taking in the scene: the scattered wedding silks, the low-burning lamp, and the two of them, intertwined on the rumpled bed.
“Durga! Are you alright?” he demanded, his voice a raw, desperate scrape.
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